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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Below the craters of a sullen city I burrow lightly, cautiously, hands on Guardrails, one foot after the other, Into the underpart of the earth, Through a spiralling, syncope-fomenting Stairwell, old and broken, but grandly ancient. The light thereunder is dim and shallow, And the rest of the matter with it was a Basket of fusty smell. It was by the loose side of noontime, When mustiness gathers sweltering details. Little rain from last night, falling from a Sobbing, laconic south, Made issues graver. But I don’t mind. With cracked, besieged walls, the grounds Welcomed me well. I stood and gazed at the books on staffed shelves, Aged and worn, Graced by times’ capsule of relief by way of Primitive reckoning. Tablets and scrolls rave with the lustre of fading Yellowness. Tomes (leather-bound) attested to the pregnancy Of departed eras. Encyclopaedia Britannica eyed me warmly. A tall, bespectacled man, the age of Wilde, With apricot skin and second-hand suit, Thin and wobbling stick, And shoes from Lennard’s Buried his face on a Chaucer Material, reading silently to the tune of His twerking soul, his full lower lip Mocking the higher. Men and women clutter about, searching And peeking from shelves of immortality, On whose dusty surfaces elderly pages stuck Out their tired, resting tongue-tips —like Stray, hungry dogs on battered pavements. The books and volumes sell for a farthing each — Coins betrayed by roaming verdigris. The quill feather pens for a few dashing shillings, The scrolls, some teeth-showing cowries . . . Above us (the reading congregation of this temple Of books and time), A coven of reading witches and winking wizards, The city throng manages itself with the due process of law According to traffic —above— And several feet below — underground — The hidden treasure of Digestible info, Divergent views.
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